


Land of Sky-Blue Waters

by Maygra



Series: Open Road [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, More comfort than hurt, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Sam sees Dead People - and faeries - and Memegwesi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean/Sam. More or less follows <a href="http://assignations.org/spn/deadmanscurve.html">Dead Man's Curve</a>. (For Allie who wanted 15 weeks later.) </p><p>Part of the Open Road Series of loosely affiliated stories.</p><p>Many thanks to demrepic and ruby_jelly for the beta, </p><p>
  <i>The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>20,604 words - originally posted 1/12/2008 <br/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Land of Sky-Blue Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Technosage](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Technosage).



I have lived with Shades so long,  
So long have talked to them,  
I sped to street and throng,  
That sometimes they  
In their dim style  
Will pause awhile  
To hear my say;" [[*]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1258177#hardy)

+++++ 

They headed for Ohio early on Saturday morning, loading up the car, stopping at a car wash on 17 to vacuum out the dirt and let Dean put the Impala through the underbody sprayers three times before he felt even slightly confident that the entire carriage wouldn't rust out from the salting of the mountain roads. They cut through the back roads of North Carolina, both of them breathing a sigh of relief at the steady stream of cars heading toward the mountains and the winter slopes. The tourist ski season had arrived and while they might be a lot of things, _tourists_ wasn't a label either one of them would cop to. 

They wound south and toward the gulf coast, back roads and long stretches of nothing much at all between the rural communities that stretched from the south of Georgia to New Orleans. There was a lot of old ghosts down that way, but most of them weren't doing anything but drifting between the living. Sometimes Sam felt like he and Dean were doing the same thing, but then they'd hit a fifty mile stretch of blacktop that had nothing on it. Dean said damn the gas prices and let the engine go--and gave a rebel yell that cut through the shrieking of the wind as it rushed past the window seals that were showing their age. Sam yelled too sometimes, just for the freedom of it, and egged Dean on when some farm boy in his F1500 thought mass and a payload could match a smooth transmission and a well-kept V-8. 

They stopped for a couple of weeks on the Gulf Coast, just short of New Orleans before Mardi Gras, Dean bitching about crowds, but Sam knew better, because there was nothing Dean would like more than being on a street with a beer in his hands and a couple of handfuls of beads to encourage a bunch of equally rowdy women to flash their tits at him and blow kisses. New Orleans had ghosts though, lots of them, and everything about the past few years indicated there were probably more now than ever. 

They spent a couple of weeks in Arkansas outside of Little Rock, on a stretch of road and a school bus crash that happened years ago. The driver and a couple of kids were killed, but it was only the driver now, following the path and looking for those he lost, or maybe the driver who swerved when he should have braked. He hasn't hurt anyone but he's stopping for all the kids along the old route and scaring them silly, but they never get their stories straight. Sometimes it was the bus and sometime it was a black carriage and Sam sees both, which fucks with his head until they dig deeper and find a similar accident a hundred years earlier. Two tragedies in the same place have left a well of sorrow just needing to be filled and even after they deal with both drivers, Sam's not sure it won't happen again. 

He smiled when Dean offered to just blow the stretch of road up, make the DOT rebuild or divert, but satisfying as it might be, Sam made him settle for laying some talismans under the edges of the road and saying a few prayers to whatever entity or power looks out for travelers. He thought maybe some places were just naturally hollow. Flaws in the fabric of the world, gaps where the warp and weave of whatever stands between this life and the next have worn thin. Sam can almost see it, not as clear as the road he'd nearly followed in North Carolina, but clearly enough. They don't have the tools or knowledge to fix it, they can only patch the weak spot and hope that in time the empty spaces will heal themselves. 

At the end of it though, he felt stretched thin himself again and tried to ignore the worried glances Dean threw his way without trying to hide his concern. They could stop again and Dean offered, but Sam just pulled out the maps and his news clippings. There was too much out there for them to be able to avoid it entirely unless, they stop for good and Sam surprised himself in realizing he wasn't willing to do that, or not yet. Like the half dozen scars that pull at his muscles when he's tired, or the limp that shows up when Dean's done too much for too long, he'd learn to adjust; had to. 

Like the scarred places of the roadsides and towns, none of it ever really goes away. You just have to learn to work around it. 

The Plague of Toads in Lucasville returned to herald in spring further north and Dean headed them that way. It was mostly a big non-thing, but funny just the same. The cause was a massive abandoned cistern, half crushed by a winter fallen tree and apparently something of a lover's lane for a bunch of mating frenzied Fowler's toads in a warmer than usual April. By the time they got there, the worst of the invasion was over, there were fish and game and wildlife researchers engaged in a frenzy of their own. 

They spent one night in town only to emerge in the morning to find several hundred of the tiny creatures sunning themselves on the Impala's hood and trunk. How they got up there was anyone's guess. Dean worried about toad shit on the car as they picked their way across the parking lot for breakfast. Sam reassured him that once the metal heated up they'd clear off on their own. 

He refrained from suggesting that Dean try to herd the toads. 

They'd checked out the cistern themselves, of course, chatting up the guy who was there from some research facility back east. Sam walked the edge of the fence line that could barely be seen, resting his hand on a rotting post staring at what was largely a wide open space, the trees there probably no more than fifty or sixty years old. 

There'd been a farm here once. He didn't need to see traces of foundation or even caught-in-time shades to know it. The cistern wasn't in the middle of the former field for no reason. 

He wasn't looking for anything at all really, but he caught Dean watching him, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He started to join Sam at the fence, but Sam waved him off. _Nothing to see, nothing to see._

It was odd in itself, that there was nothing. The cistern itself was old, possible over a century, built of fieldstone and the cover made of slatted wood, hand hewn and fit. There was no encroaching forest, which spoke of a good-sized farm, not just a few fields to see to a family's needs. 

Aside from the toads, there was nothing unusual going on in Lucasville, no hint of hauntings or bad luck. 

It made him wonder what had happened at this farm, if anything. If there had been joy here or loss. Most likely both, like most places in the world. But it was empty, void of impressions. That was almost more difficult to bear than if there had been shades drifting along long-overgrown pathways. 

He caught Dean starting to move toward him again from the corner of his eye and turned back. Dean's worry was like an uncomfortable weight on his back. He appreciated what drove it, but too frequently he was the cause of Dean's bouts of distress and he didn't like the feeling. 

He stepped carefully and watched the tiny brown toads scatter. "Where to next?" he asked and Dean studied him then shrugged, put his sunglasses back on. 

"Bobby's given me a lead on a cabin in Minnesota." 

"What's going on?" 

"Don't know. Just asked us to check it out." 

Dean gave him the area and Sam spent a few minutes hunting through the box of maps to get a route. It was north of Bemidji, not far from the Canadian border. 

Sam watched the empty farm fade in the side mirror. Nothing moved but a few tree leaves, nothing flickered or shone. It was quiet and empty. 

He should be grateful for no sudden assault on his senses. 

Mostly the silence bothered him. 

+++++ 

It was an eighteen-hour drive. Dean would usually do his best to cut a quarter of that off, drive straight through, but they stopped outside of Minneapolis, Dean looking for a Kmart or a Wal-Mart or something. "Bobby says there's not much up there, so we should pick up some food and water, just in case it takes a few days." 

"What exactly are we looking into?" 

Dean shrugged. "Cabin. May be nothing, just some odd things -- like no one can stay there more than a few months." 

"Chased off by ghosts?" 

"Couldn't tell you." 

"Bobby's usually got more than that." 

"He just wants us to check it out. If it's nothing we'll move on. Unless you'd rather go to Mississippi?" Dean sounded bored. 

Hot, humid Mississippi. Sam could almost feel the sweat under his shirt. "No, it' s okay. I'd just rather have more information before we head into the middle of nowhere to face off with God knows what." He was sure he sounded more irritated than he actually felt. 

"Where's your sense of adventure?" 

"Lost somewhere between murderous ghost number five-hundred-fifty-seven and the last time I had to put stitches in you." 

Dean grinned at him and rubbed his arm under his jacket. "And you hardly left a scar. I'll grab food. You might want to restock the first aid kit," he said and pulled off to wind his way into the parking lot of Kmart. He didn't wait for Sam to get out of the car, just jogged in. 

Sam took a quick inventory and made a list in his head, before following. He'd end up getting more than just first aid supplies, because Dean would make them survive on junk food and beer. 

The carts were near the door and a youngish guy stood there, ready to help with carts... 

...except his hands passed through them and no one saw him but Sam. 

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the idea that this poor kid's happiest moments had been as a buggy boy in a Kmart in Minneapolis. 

He kept his head down, his mind on his mental list, not surprised when Dean found him twenty minutes later. His cart was filled with a surprising number of sensible items, once Sam looked past the double bag of Fritos, Cheezwhiz, and a box of Dolly Madison cupcakes. Paper plates and plastic forks, paper towels, toilet tissue, and an economy pack of three bath soaps, a package of washcloths, three for a dollar. A box of laundry detergent. Cans of soup, a box of crackers, a small sauce pan. 

The food Sam got, but the rest -- they tended to steal towels from motels, and there was a plastic bag full of tiny courtesy soaps in the trunk of the car, next to the boxes of empty shell casings. "So, while we're checking out this cabin, where exactly are we planning on staying?" 

"At the cabin." 

"The cabin we're supposed to be checking out? The one that might be a problem?" 

Dean fidgeted, although to anyone but Sam he would have looked annoyed. "Well...yeah." 

"Dean, what's going on?" 

Dean scratched the back of his head. "The cabin is...there's nothing wrong with the cabin. Belongs to a guy Bobby knows. He's letting us use it for the summer." 

"Use it for what?" 

"A place to work from. Base. Kind of a home base, someplace to come back to. It needs a little work, some cleaning, but there's...it's free." 

"A cabin in the middle of nowhere," Sam said. "You got us a house?" 

"Kind of. Until hunting season...October or so. I wouldn't want to stay in Minnesota for the winter anyway." 

Sam was having a hard time getting his mind around the whole concept. The plan was...the way they did things was to keep moving. No place long enough to sink down roots. Do the job and move on. Rest when they needed to. 

"What's really going on?" 

Dean stopped fidgeting and stared at Sam for a long moment before glancing around. He grabbed Sam's sleeve and tugged him toward a counter where knock-off designer sunglasses and jewelry glittered and waited. 

Dean stopped them in front of the sunglasses display, reaching out to tilt the mirror up. He didn't say a word. 

Sam didn't really need to look. He'd seen himself in the motel mirror that morning, caught glimpses of himself in the window of the car. Lack of sleep didn't wear as appealingly on him as it did Dean. Dean got that red-eyed slightly flushed look to his face when he hadn't slept in too long. Sam looked like he'd gone a few too many rounds in a bar fight -- difference in skin coloring, in bone structure. 

He didn't look long, mostly because he found himself staring at Dean's face, at the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Time on the coast had turned his skin light gold, made his freckles darker, lightened the ends of his hair, but there was grey mixed in there too, next to the hold-over blond from when he was a kid. Dean's green eyes were stormy, worry or anger; it was hard to tell sometimes. 

Sam dropped his gaze and turned around, pushing his cart toward the checkout lanes. He didn't actually think it would help. Not with his visions anyway. But maybe he could sleep, and maybe a few weeks of Dean not having to rouse him from a thousand-yard stare would ease the lines around Dean's mouth. 

Dean would be as bored at the cabin as he had been at the beach. 

Sam glanced over their carts, doing the math in his head. They had enough for just about that time if they were careful and if he didn't count the junk food as actual _food_. Just in case he made Dean stop at a couple of garage sales on their way out of town. The smiling housewives were happy to take a five for their boxes of unwanted books. 

++++ 

The deal for the cabin was more involved than Dean had let on -- it needed some work -- nothing big, just some patching, replace few shingles, recaulk some windows. A coat of paint. The owner would leave the supplies and the list. 

The drive up to it made Dean curse. The road was an overgrown rutted track of dirt and wild wood grasses. They had to stop twice to move rotting deadfalls, which made Dean wonder if the owner had made it up yet. But Sam pointed out tracks weaving to the left and right of the cleared path. The road was meant for a heavy truck or 4-wheel drive and while the Impala had the weight, she rode too low to make the traverse a smooth one. Still, Sam didn't see any places that they might get stuck in unless they really took on a lot of rain. 

The cabin was both better and worse than Bobby had described and Sam had expected. It wasn't new, but it had obviously been added to in the last couple of years -- new wood brighter than the greying older clapboards. It had its own generator and a propane tank with a gauge that showed it to be half full. They had to kick it into running before they could hope for hot water but the lights in the house worked, and the stove didn't flare when they lit it. There was a small, stacked, low capacity washing machine tucked into the closet in the bathroom, with a note that it had to be manually filled -- no water lines hooked in. There was a decent sized shed that would protect the Impala and there were supplies lined against the wall. A list of repairs was written out on the chalk part of the dartboard hanging in the main room. There were two smallish bedrooms and a fold out sofa. One bedroom had twin beds, the other a double. 

Dean put their gear in the room with the double. 

It was serviced by well water with a reserve tank, and Sam was just as glad they'd brought bottled water. It was probably fine and there was scrap of paper on the side of the refrigerator with the last date the owner had had the water tested. Cooking and washing were one thing, drinking was another. 

It took them the rest of the afternoon and into evening to unload the car and to check out linens and supplies, make a list of anything else they might need. The down side was there was only spotty cell service and that only along the rutted drive, the guy had a satellite dish, but Dean could only coax a half dozen or so channels out of the small color TV. 

They'd definitely stayed in worse places. Sam gave it a week before the isolation caused Dean to start bouncing off the walls. For all Dean's air of self-sufficiency (and he was) Sam was actually better suited for a life lived apart than Dean. 

Dinner was better than average canned chili and crackers that didn't come in little cellophane sleeves of two. The beer was cold and the night mild although it would get colder toward dawn. Dean built a fire in the fireplace as much to ward off the chill as to burn off some of the musty smell from disuse. 

A full belly and a warm room and no place to be for awhile worked like a sleeping pill on Sam, and he drowsed on the sofa, after having sorted through the box of books and setting aside the ones that looked interesting from the ones that would be read only in desperation. He'd never been a fan of Danielle Steele. 

Dean rousted him sometime around ten and steered him toward the bedroom, a circumstance incredibly familiar from when Sam had been much younger but the comparisons faded when Sam sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed Dean's hips, pulling him between his legs. 

The beach had gotten them used to this, to be able to touch and hold and ask without words, to be neither desperate nor angry. Dean's fingers curved around the back of his neck and stroked the fine hairs at the nape, only swaying slightly when Sam undid his jeans and slipped them down and then his underwear without bothering to pull Dean's shirt off. Dean didn't protest at all, only braced his legs wider and took a sharper, deeper breath when Sam's hand cupped and cradled him, lifting his dick free and using lips and his jaw to nuzzle the soft length of Dean's cock until it grew firmer and longer. Dean's skin smelled slightly of sweat and tasted of salt and musk and warm cotton, heavy against Sam's tongue and sweet against his lips. Sam braced his own knees wide and dug his fingers into the firm muscles of his brother's ass, pulling him closer and taking him deeper, shivering under the caress of Dean's fingers on his cheek when they pressed harder as his dick filled Sam's mouth and throat. 

His own dick was comfortably warm and hard in his jeans, buzzing his gut with need as they found the rhythm of rock and sway. Dean's hips thrust slightly with no real urgency until there was and he had one hand gripped in Sam's hair and the other digging bruises into his shoulder, legs trembling and his groans a counterpoint to the raspy, wet sound of his dick sliding against Sam's lips. 

Sam's fingers dug deeper into Dean's ass, spreading him wide, fingertips just grazing over his hole and Dean made a low guttural sound, half Sam's name and half curse, thrust and held, when Sam's thumb barely pressed in. Sam remembered to breathe and then swallowed the flood of bitter salt across his tongue, thick and familiar, filling throat and mouth and his own dick throbbed and ached, but he didn't do anything but keep swallowing until Dean pulled his dick back and tilted Sam's head up. 

No kiss or words, only the glitter brightness of Dean's eyes and the flush to his cheeks, chest heaving as he stroked his dick to get the last of his jizz free, painting Sam's lips with it. He simultaneously shoved Sam back and went to his knees, unsteady fingers opening Sam's jeans and pulling his cock out, heels of his hands pressed flat to Sam's hips. 

It didn't take long at all, Dean muttering about Sam's lack of stamina, but touching him gently even after Sam had given up all he had to give with not much more than the touch of Dean's hand's and the sweet pressure of his mouth. He came with the taste of his brother still on his tongue, wearing most of his clothes and without a sound. 

He barely remembered either of them getting undressed, only that the sheets were clean, the cabin warm, and Dean's hand spread wide across his belly. Sleepy eyes tracked the patterns of moonlight on the windows and he caught a flash and flare of something but Dean's lips were pressed to the back of his neck, and his knee was warm and heavy between Sam's legs. Whatever it was could wait until morning. 

+++++ 

The cabin was chilly when Sam woke, cold and needing the bathroom. Dean was curled up on the other side of the bed, most of the blankets wrapped around him and only the short shock of mussed hair showing. Shivering or not, Sam didn't have it in him to be angry. He'd slept hard, with no dreams, and that was more precious than any other comfort. He dug in his bag for heavy sweats and thick socks and two shirts, pulling all of it on while he stumbled to the bathroom. The water in the taps was blessedly hot, but he didn't try for the shower just yet. 

The banked coals didn't take long to flare with new life when he added wood and kindling and the stove didn't hesitate to come on. The coffeepot was an old style stove-top percolator, slow to brew but the smell was amazing even though the coffee was nothing special. Sam settled for tea made with hot tap water and teabags that had been in the cabinets since God knew when, but it warmed him up enough to take the last of the chill off. 

It was only barely dawn outside and brisk, but Sam went out anyway, seeing heavy dew turned frost on the foliage outside, the planks of the porch damp under his socks. There was a rustling of leaves but no real breeze and already the birds were talking. Low fog hugged the ground, in-between the trees and underbrush and the horizon glowed red and gold. He stayed outside long enough to identify the rustling as rabbits, skip-hopping through the frosty grasses, long ears twitching. When Sam shifted his weight and the boards creaked; it was enough to send the rabbits -- two of them -- shooting off deeper into the woods and then it was just Sam and the birds. 

He looked, really looked as he usually didn't, but nothing drifted by beyond the normal range of his senses and he felt that much more tension leave his shoulders. 

Dean woke up with uncanny timing just as the coffee was done and Sam was contemplating scrambling some eggs. The cabin was markedly warmer and Dean came out barefooted and back in his jeans, shirtless and rubbing his belly. He eyed Sam for a long moment and looked satisfied with what he saw, smirk hovering on his lips when he nudged Sam aside to mix up the eggs himself. Sam grabbed coffee and headed to the bathroom, pausing only long enough nudge Dean with his hip. That got him a snort and a warning not to use all the hot water. 

The water in the shower was hot, but the pressure was kind of half-assed. Sam washed his hair first and dried off feeling boneless and relaxed. There was breakfast in the kitchen and his coffee was still warm when he finished. 

The eggs were plain and the bacon crisp. Sam took his time while Dean took his own shower and stared at the list of things to do, weighing the options of doing the more difficult stuff first: the roof and the painting, as opposed to getting the easier stuff out of the way. Dean settled his internal argument by going out to the car and bringing in a few guns. They were all cleaned, but neither of them had done much more than that with them in a couple of weeks. 

The targets were arbitrary and difficult: a thin branch there, a leaf over there. A ring of mushrooms left over from last season, now blackened and nearly impossible to see. 

Dean was the better shot; always had been, although Sam knew it was a matter of degrees more than anything. A few branches thrown into the air widened the degrees but the competition had only ever been on Dean's side and Sam didn't mind losing or acknowledging the winner. Dean always thought of the weapons and training as perks; Sam saw them more as necessities, which didn't hamper his competency, only his enthusiasm. He got more pleasure out of Dean's glee than he did his own accuracy. 

They flipped a coin over the chores and assessed the supplies, found the tools. By noon, they were up on the roof, the low pitch of it making the whole job easier and stripped to t-shirts as the sun kicked through the clearing around the cabin and warmed the asphalt shingles enough to make them pliable without making them sticky. It was still hot, sweaty work though, and Sam was only glad they aren't being asked to re-roof the entire thing, only to repair winter damage and wear around the eaves and the chimney. It was work they'd done before, in between towns and school years, laying shingles and light carpentry work easy enough to find and requiring little proof of expertise in comparison to working in a garage with their father. By eighteen, Dean had already had an edge to him that made foremen and crew bosses think him older, and Sam had hit the height but not the age a couple of years later. 

He cut shingles to fit and slathered sealant under the edges, letting Dean wield the hammer and crowbar, tossing the old shingles over the side. Dean was as quick and precise at laying out the sheets as he was as stripping and cleaning their guns. Not for the first time Sam thought about the fact that Dean could learn and do anything he put his mind to, that no matter his brother's convictions or desires, there were a lot of things he could do in this life and do well. 

The opposite of that was that there were few who could do what Dean, and by extension Sam, did now, and do it as well. It was an old battle in Sam's mind and heart, one he wasn't sure would ever be resolved in any lasting way. He'd learned to take what he could get of what he actually wanted -- and this was no different. 

The last of the new shingles went down with Dean's triumphant, "ha!" and Sam grinned at him and stretched out on the roof, closing his eyes against the sunlight and letting the heat from the roof soak into his bones. 

He didn't move when he heard and felt Dean cross the roof and climb down the ladder, or even when he came back up. He jerked upright when cold glass touched his bare belly, only Dean's anticipatory quickness saved either him or the beer from being shoved off the roof. Sure neither would fall, Dean settled in beside him and handed him the beer, both of them sitting in silence and studying the dense forest around them and the incredible aching blue of the sky above. 

Sam upended his beer first, finishing it, and caught a glittering movement out of the corner of his eye, jerking his head around, but there was nothing. Dean's finger crept light as a spider over his thigh and settled. "What did you see?" 

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Just...out of the corner of my eye. Probably a bird." He didn't mention the glimmer of the night before -- there was nothing to tell. He might be a bit more jumpy than usual, which argued well for Dean bringing them here, but it only increased Sam's frustration over having so little control over any of it. 

Dean's fingers slid higher along the seam of Sam's jeans, into the crease of fabric at his groin, knowing and sure, edge of his forefinger rubbing along the length of Sam's dick, where the fabric started to feel tighter under the light pressure. Low roof pitch or not, Sam had a sudden impression of them both rolling off the edge -- but that didn't seem to have any effect on the blood suddenly filling his dick. He dug the heels of his boots into the rough shingles and braced his hands. "This probably isn't the best place for that," he managed a half second before Dean cupped his balls and dick in the palm of his hand, pressing down. 

"I won't let you fall," Dean said, and did the rub and squeeze thing again, ducking his head to catch Sam's mouth, pressing back, until Sam just went with it, feeling the warm scratchy asphalt shingles under his shoulders and back again. Falling really was one of those concepts that became truth on a lot of levels. 

Dean managed to unfasten Sam's jeans with one hand while kissing him with deep, probing sweeps of his tongue and feather light nips to Sam's lips and chin and finally his throat. Sam's attempts to touch back, to reach and hold were evaded and discouraged, finally to the point of Dean using his free hand to pull Sam's hands over his head, and hold them there with more suggestion than will. 

How they both didn't slide off was an argument against gravity -- or maybe Dean just had more, holding them firm and centered, wedging a bent knee under Sam's right thigh. His mouth shifted from Sam's throat to his chest, kitten-tongue swipes across his nipples and sternum, along the center line of his chest to his belly, all the places that were sensitive but not ticklish. His tongue dipped into the deep dimple of Sam's navel even as he jacked Sam off slowly, with no rhythm that Sam could grab onto and make work for him entirely. 

It left him with a low spreading warmth in his belly, made him tense and flex and thrust when Dean's knuckles brushed and pressed into the sensitive area just below his dick. He was going to have a scrape and burn across his shoulders and probably on his ass where his jeans had ridden down, but he didn't say anything, only rode the hot and languid waves of sensation. He tried to catch his breath, spreading his legs and trying to give Dean more room, his own moans and gasps sounding quiet and desperate when Dean rubbed his thumb along the underside of Sam's cock and dug his fingers deeper into the tight space between flesh and cloth. 

"Jesus, Sam..." Dean sounded equally as breathy, eyes dark and cheeks and chest flushed. He pulled his hand free briefly -- Sam making a sound that was suspiciously like whimper, but then Dean's fingers were back, spit-slick and purposeful. Sam lifted his hips, going almost rigid when Dean slipped both fingers inside, homing in on the one spot sure to send Sam tumbling off the roof if only in a metaphor. 

The sky burned bright and blue and then went white and Sam fell after all. 

+++++ 

Getting off the roof was part a study in coordination and part a Three Stooges routine. Dean had straddled Sam's hips while Sam was still recovering and jacked himself off, spreading an equal amount of come and curses and kisses over Sam's chest. Then he leaned over Sam on all fours, breathing hard; his soft, wet dick rubbing new patterns into the skin of Sam's belly until Sam thought he might just come again from the sight of it. He wasn't used to thinking of Dean as sexy or hot, in all the time since they'd become lovers. Mostly it was just _Dean_ and _yes_ and _I love you more than my life_ , the latter of which was never said aloud. 

Sam did have an ache and rash on his shoulders, and both of them swayed and nearly did stumble in getting to their feet and pulling their jeans back up. Sam felt a little drunk -- far more so than one beer could cause --and Dean didn't look to be any steadier. The ladder had shifted and swayed and Sam got three rungs down and just dropped the rest of the way, ending up on his ass in the damp grass. Dean had five seconds of concern and then five minutes of laughter that Sam joined him in, before both of them decided they were pushing their luck at not tripping into a major injury. 

They shared the small shower and Dean laid cream over the rash on Sam's shoulders. They gave up cooking for beer and sandwiches, eaten while still damp and dressed no further than towels, leaving crumbs in the bed and the sheets damp. By the time the sun set, Sam had an ache in his ass to match the duller one in his shoulders, and Dean was half snoring into his armpit, one hand tucked tight and warm against Sam's ass and between his thighs. 

They'd let the fire burn down, and Sam shivered under the gathering chill but felt too languid and fucked out to even reach for the blankets. He tucked his arms under the pillow and stared at the rough hewn walls and out the window. Always amazed at how dark and quiet it could get way out, where no light pollution bled into the skies, and no noise hummed from the roads under the weight of trucks and passing cars. He'd spent so much time in motels during his life, the noises no longer really registered except in their absence. Here there was nothing but the soft rustling of branches ready to bud, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the steady sound of Dean breathing beside him. 

He was half asleep again when he heard it, not sure if it was just his brain doing its routine filtering before shutting down into sleep. Dean muttered something and shifted, shivered, starting to feel the chill. 

The whispers took on volume and form, but not enough for Sam to make out the words, like there was someone mumbling in the other room. It was enough to make him wake up though. 

The murmuring didn't stop. 

He got up as carefully as he could, but he and Dean were twined so deeply together, there was no way to do it without waking his brother. "Wha--what's n--ph...Sam?" 

"I heard something," Sam said softly, And like that Dean was wide awake and reaching for the blade under his pillow, slipping off the bed and cocking his head. After a couple of seconds he shook his head. He wasn't hearing it, but it didn't ease the tension in his body at all. 

"What is it?" So low, it didn't even interrupt the indistinct voices still filling Sam's ears. 

Sam shook his head, straining for something recognizable, only barely acknowledging the cool, familiar weight of the gun Dean slipped into his hand. 

The cabin was dark, almost pitch black, but Dean would let him go no further until he'd at least put on sweat pants. 

The volume of the murmuring neither increased nor decreased as they both eased toward the door. It sounded no louder from the center of the house than it did in the bedroom, or even when Sam cracked the front door. The shush of voices continued, distinct pitches and falls but no words he could make out and no alteration in tone that made it sound threatening. 

Dean's hand touched his back, mute guide and warning as Dean slid along the wall toward the front door and Sam went the opposite way toward the narrow back one. The doors were shotgun oriented, the rear opening into the graveled area that held the propane tank and clean water reservoir. 

The moment Sam opened the door the whispers stopped. Stepping outside revealed nothing but woods of various deep shadows and the faintest shimmer of light off the tank from the stars and moon above. Coming back inside didn't cause the whispers to start up again either and Sam crossed the main room to follow Dean, catching a glimpse of his brother's bare back as he edged around the east side of the house. 

"It's gone," he said, not quite his normal speaking voice, but not a whisper either. "It's stopped." 

Dean glanced back at him and made another survey of the yard and the forest around it. "What was it?" 

Sam shrugged. "It sounded like voices but I couldn't make out what they were saying. It stopped when I opened the door." 

"But not when I did." 

Sam hadn't seen precisely when Dean had opened the front door and he shrugged again. "I don't know. Maybe." 

Dean rubbed his arm with his hand still clenched around his gun. "It's cold as hell out here," he said and took one more survey of the area before darting back inside. The thunk of wood on wood and the rustling of paper sounded overly loud to Sam's ears and he stared into the darkness, almost willing himself to see something, hear something, but nothing flickered or shone and the only sounds outside were normal night sounds. 

The silence reassured him not at all. 

+++++ 

Despite renewed warmth in the house, neither of them were inclined to head back to bed. Dean retrieved a shotgun loaded with salt from the weapons carry and laid it cracked open on the low coffee table. They didn't bother with the lights, letting the fire provide illumination, coffee bubbled in the percolator again and Dean settled into work the crossword puzzle from the back of some magazine he'd picked up. Sam cracked the new spine on a paperback and tilted it toward the light to read, but couldn't focus enough to even begin to grasp plot or care about the characters. He settled for sorting the piles further by genre then by author, staring at the cover art on a few, and playing a familiar game of seeing if he could guess the storyline as described on the back blurb by art alone. 

"What did it sound like?" Dean asked nearly an hour later. 

"Just voices. Talking." 

"How many voices?" 

That was a better question and Sam had to examine the faint adrenaline-laced memories for details. It was similar to the way Dean drew out details from Sam's visions, parsing out pertinent facts from pain -- although at least with this latest thing, there had been no pain. "Three, I think." 

"Male or female?" 

Harder still, the tones low and soft and offering no clue. The cadence had been intense but not aggressive. He couldn't find an answer to Dean's question or even offer an educated guess. 

Bed or not, Sam did drift a little, woke and returned when Dean dropped a light blanket over him and a cushion from the worn sofa for himself, settling shoulder and hip to Sam's back. What felt like normal dreams played out behind Sam's closed eyes, of tumbling water and wind tossed trees, the crunch of fresh snow and the lacing of ice against shallow riverbanks. He thought he heard the rattle of chimes and the clacking of bones but none of it was alarming. When Sam came out of his drowse again it was lighter outside and Dean was moving quietly in the kitchen, trying not to wake him as he tapped utensils against metal bowls, and heavy plates against the counter. 

They spent the morning after breakfast with light chores, recaulking the window panes and sealing them, then clearing loose brush from around the cabin's foundation. Dean cranked up the Impala and rolled the windows down, letting music blast out of the speakers and scaring the wildlife for a mile. Sam figured Dean's willingness to stay here would last only as long as the list of chores or the food lasted, an observation that neither slowed nor quickened his own efforts. The painting alone would take them a few days, shoveling the pile of fresh gravel under the propane tank and around the foundation another two and the size of the pile explained some of the deeper ruts in the road in. That was the kind of back-breaking work Sam didn't look forward to, but could see the necessity for. 

Sometime after lunch, Dean turned his attention to the car, not shy about using the reservoir to give her a good wash and putting attention into the detail like he did on his guns. Sam grabbed up a bottle of water and couple of apples, and voiced his intention of following one of the many trails that led away from the cabin -- overgrown but still visible. An hour or so, less than two, he promised and Dean checked his watch before returning to his waxing, lips compressed but offering no other protest. He was wary of letting Sam too far out of his sight -- a truth that had been with Sam as long as he could remember. He checked his own watch and set the small alarm to remind him when he was a half hour out. That seemed to ease Dean's expression and Sam headed off on the trail to avoid showing Dean either aggravation or amusement. 

The trail was mostly a straight shot, bending only slightly around larger trees, and actually well marked with faded red paint every 100 yards or so. It meant the path probably actually led to something or somewhere -- Sam was betting on a blind or even a clearing for dressing kills. The cabin was meant for hunters of the big game kind, although all Sam had seen thus far were rabbits. 

He was surprised when the path faltered and dumped onto a flat of rock and shale and winter-gray scrub that gave way to a slow-moving stream. Just at that point the stream opened into a pool, flanked by rock on either bank and too wide for Sam to cross without finding a narrower neck of the stream. The pool itself was opaque by virtue of reflecting the blue sky above, impossible to gauge the depth of by sight alone. A broken branch the length of Sam's arm sank under the water, but a second, not quite as tall as Sam, hit bottom and stirred muck and leaves up to the surface, interrupting the mirrored stillness. The water was ice cold, but a couple of sheared rounds of trunk indicated that their unnamed host may well have chose the place as much for the nearby swimming hole as for the isolation. 

A hundred yard downstream the stream picked up speed again, tumbling and gurgling across rocks and cutting into the banks on either side. The woods closed in around it again as the land rose slightly and Sam's watch chirped as he hit a point where a missed stepped would send him over a drop of about five feet or so. There was deer-sign here, and fox, animals tracking the water's edge on their way to the pool. 

He headed back, eyes on the opposite bank, wondering if there was a place to cross further upstream. 

The mud he'd stirred up had settled by the time he returned, the highly reflective surface almost hypnotizing. He finished his bottle of water and dipped the plastic in, the water clear with little sediment. He wasn't usually so incautious as to drink untested water -- no idea where the stream sourced from, but it was likely the water was the same water in the well. It was bitingly cold, icy to the point of giving him a momentary brain-freeze that made him tense his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut. 

When he opened them again the clearing was all in shadow, a solid bank of clouds obscuring the sun, and everything sounded muted to his ears. The pool went from bright and shining to dark and slightly disorienting, the way the darker cloud layer gave the impression of the water boiling just under the surface. It was a trick of shadow and light and the tannin in the water that had settled at the bottom, but Sam stumbled backward when one of the cloud shapes seemed to morph into an almost recognizable face of darkened eyes and streaming hair, lips parted as if to speak. Nothing broke the surface of the water and Sam's heart was pounding as he stared; that face staring back up at him. Then he had to blink and squeeze his eyes shut when the sun emerged, glaring off the water like a camera flash and the face vanished like it had never been. He backed up, checking the pool and the sky, and then tensing when another cloud bank moved in and shuttered the sun away once more. 

He wanted it to be clouds. 

He wasn't surprised when it wasn't. 

He came no closer to the water's edge on seeing the face again, and the face in the water showed no signs of emerging from the pool. There was more than a face though; pale arms stretched out just under the surface, seeming content to observe Sam as he observed his watery visitor. Hard to tell if it was male or female despite the long hair. The rest of the body, if there was one, was obscured in the pool's depth and the still present reflections of clouds moving. The hands didn't beckon him closer and the lips remained parted, curved in what might be a smile or might simply be a distortion of the water. 

Legends of Nixies and Nymphs and Kelpies repeated themselves as he stared, but he felt no compulsion beyond curiosity to get closer to the water or do anything else except want to know what it was. 

The sun eased out again and the thing sank, although this was a gradual drop, the pale shape of it visible beneath the water but far more indistinct. And then Sam did step closer, wondering if it were the sunlight that drove it away or simple boredom. He remained out of grabbing reach, but the shape in the water moved further toward the center, away from him, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"Sam?" Dean's voice startled him but not enough to make him fall or stumble or even to turn around and put his back to the water. Instead he rose and backed up before angling toward Dean, but still able to keep an eye on the pool. 

"There's something in the water," Sam said and Dean drew up close, and drew his gun. Sam laid a hand on his wrist. "It hasn't tried anything, hasn't come out. It's just watching." 

"If it's watching from the water that can't be good." Dean was tense from more than just Sam's words. "Where the hell have you been?" 

"Here...I mean I walked downstream, but then came back." 

"You've been gone for nearly four hours. I was heading back to get a pack and flashlights and call Bobby to haul his ass out here." 

"I haven't--" Sam started to say and glanced at his watch. More time had passed than he'd expected, and he stared at it, trying to fill in the gaps and came up with nothing. 

The sun, for all that he'd been watching it, had definitely shifted angles and he'd missed it in his stare down with the thing in the water. He was suddenly aware of the ache in his legs and his feet from standing in once place for so long. "I've been here, right here the whole time." 

"I've been past this pool three times and you weren't here. Nothing happened?" Dean asked, drawing him back along the trail, checking over his shoulder as if expecting something to emerge from the water. 

"Nothing. I stared at it, it stared at me. I was trying to figure out what it is." 

"Did it say anything?" 

Sam shook his head, glad when Dean's fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. "Nothing. I only saw it when the sun went behind the clouds." 

"Jesus..." Dean said and looked up. The sky was cloudless, open and bright blue, for miles from the vista of the clearing, not even faint wisps of vapor. "Tell me -- everything you did -- and keep walking," he said nudging Sam forward.. 

Sam did, from the walk and the view where the stream undercut the bank, the paw and hoof prints he'd seen, deer spoor...all the way back, Dean needling him for details however minute...Sam's throat felt a dry and he lifted the bottle, then stopped. "I drank the water," he said. 

"What?" 

"I drank the water. Before I saw anything..." 

Dean stared at the bottle. It was clear, the thinnest bit of sediment swirling in the bottom from Sam jostling it as they walked. "Don't drink anymore," he said and took the bottle from Sam, offering his own. Dean didn't toss it or empty it though. "I'm gonna kill Bobby," he said as the cabin drew into view. "He swore there was nothing out here." 

"Maybe he didn't know." Sam was ready for a hot shower and to get off his feet. 

"He should have," Dean said, still angry and he hadn't let go of Sam's shirt, didn't until they reached the two steps up and through the back door. 

"It didn't do anything." 

"Yeah?" Dean was openly skeptical. "You _disappeared_ for at least a couple of hours, Sam. Maybe you just don't remember." Then he was tugging at Sam's shirt, peeling the flannel off and checking Sam's arms, his hands. Checking him all over. 

"What are you looking for?" 

"Hell if I know -- marks, bites, tattoos -- something stamped on your ass saying something else has decided to lay claim to you," Dean said and tugged his T-shirt. His voice was steady, low and pissed off, and Sam through about arguing but Dean was in phase one of a freak out and Sam would rather he didn't escalate to phase two. He peeled his T-shirt off, feeling it stick slightly and his arms ached -- sweat and stillness. The fact that he'd apparently lost a couple of hours should be freaking him out as much as Dean, and he couldn't really say why it wasn't. The stare down, like the voices in the night -- neither of them had felt threatening. Not beguiling either, just _there_. 

"I need a shower." 

"In a minute." Dean was behind him, fingers brushing lightly over Sam's back and along his spine, checking under his armpits even to pushing the hair there aside. Sam felt like he was being groomed by a chimpanzee. He unfastened his belt and opened his jeans, but had to bend over to unlace his boots. 

"Shower now. Strip down and come with me and you can keep checking while I get the sweat off," Sam said and didn't add to ease the aches, because Dean apparently had enough to worry about. 

Dean's mouth was set again and he glared but pulled off his own shirt and then it was all, 'hurry up' and 'now, Sam'. 

Dean didn't give up his examination and Sam let him check the bottoms of his feet while they waited for the hot water to start flowing. Then it was more of the same, and Sam almost started laughing at the thought of Dean on his knees in front of Sam's crotch and touching him _without_ actually thinking about sex was the second weirdest thing that had happened to him. The same was true when he turned Sam around to face the showerhead and used the flats of both hands to part Sam's ass cheeks and check the crease. Hands in Sam's wet hair had all the sexiness of Dean checking for head lice, the same when his fingers went into Sam's mouth, checking the inside of his lips and his gums and under his tongue. He turned Sam again to check the nape of his neck, fingers slick and Sam closed his eyes to keep the water out of them -- then pushed back. 

"It's the same water," he said. 

"What water?" 

"Here. In the reservoir. I mean, it's possible the well is fed from the same water source." 

Dean's fingers tightened on the nape of his neck then eased. "Great. Now maybe we'll both be seeing your freaky water faery when I make spaghetti." 

"Or it's got nothing to do with the water -- drinking it, I mean -- at all. Wait. You're making spaghetti?" Sam loved Dean's spaghetti. He always started with a jar, but added something to it. He refused to tell Sam what he did. 

Dean handed him a wet washcloth and the soap. "Get clean." He stepped out of the shower. 

Sam hurried, aware that there was a certain lethargy that was leaving him -- something he hadn't noticed. When he dried off and changed into dry clothes, he found Dean on the couch, a beer in hand. There was a stewpot of water coming to a boil on the stove. Sam dropped down beside him and stole his beer. Dean let him have it. He looked less freaked out but he was still simmering underneath. Sam nudged him and passed the beer back. "I'm fine. I'm sorry you were worried." 

Dean rolled his eyes and took the beer, finishing off the last half of the bottle and then getting up to drop the empty in the trash and check the water on the stove. 

Sam sighed -- quietly -- and got up to follow him. "You want garlic bread?" he asked and Dean only grunted. Sam got the bread loaf and made a pan of foil, buttering each slice of bread before cutting it in half, then being generous with the garlic salt and parmesan cheese. They didn't have any dried parsley, but there was oregano and he hesitated with the plastic container, vividly recalling doing this with Jessica. They'd used actual French bread, Jess kind of appalled at the idea of using bagged, sliced white bread. She'd been the one to teach him to use the herbs in addition to the salt and cheese, had insisted on olive oil rather than margarine. They'd compromised on actual butter. 

It took him a moment to realize that the voice in his head he was hearing wasn't Jessica's but the same indistinct whispers, only this time with the lights on and Dean wide awake beside him. Sam touched his arm lightly to get his attention, and turned to face the wider room. "Voices again," he said softly and Dean jerked around, eyes narrowing as he tried to catch sight of or hear anything in the room. Dean cut the heat under the almost boiling water. As before, the voices neither diminished nor rose in volume. They murmured along, different tones pitching over each other. It sounded more familiar though and Sam struggled to think why. 

The water settled in the pot and the metal pinged as it cooled. 

Dean edged toward the front door, eyes on Sam when he opened it. The voices drained away, like water over rocks in the stream. "It's the water," Sam said. It was. The sound of water in the creek as it raced downstream only here it was contained and muffled, threading through earth and concrete and the wood of the flooring. He didn't know why opening the door made a difference but it did. Like the water was trapped but still flowing, as impossible as that seemed. 

"Gone again?" 

Sam nodded. "We should check the pool." 

Dean chewed n his lip for a moment before nodding. "Iron rounds, Flashlights...what else?" 

"We don't know what it is." 

"We know what it isn't. Salt won't work. There's a bag of iron filings in the trunk of the car." 

"What, poison the pool? That will only work if it's fae." 

"Then it won't hurt to try it," Dean said, sitting down to pull on his boots. 

"It's not hurting anything," Sam said. "If it's been there awhile, it obviously hasn't done anything to anyone -- Bobby would have heard of that and he would have told us" 

"Until now," Dean said standing up, face and jaw set. 

"It hasn't done anything." 

"It had you for a couple of hours!" Dean snapped back. "We're not arguing about this, Sam. Either get dressed and grab the gear or sit down and shut up." He headed outside grabbing his car keys on the way. 

Sam stared at the closed door and then grabbed his own boots. Apparently, the second stage freak out had been simmering along with the water. 

He didn't say a word as Dean stomped back in, just put guns and ammo in the carry-all, and checked both their flashlights before shouldering the bag. He let Dean carry the filings. 

The woods were hardly quiet, but they were dark, only a sliver of moon showing and they both had to check the tree marking. The sound of running water grew louder the closer to the stream and rock surrounding it they got. Once there, Dean didn't hesitate to take his bag right to the edge of the pool, ready to dump the whole thing, before Sam grabbed his arm. "Wait." 

"Not arguing, Sam," Dean said. 

"I'm not, but if it's not fae, then you'll have wasted it for nothing," Sam murmured and pulled the long handled iron knife from his bag. It was impossible to keep sharp, but that wasn't its strength. He crouched by the edge of the pool, aware of Dean crowding him, ready to grab Sam if anything made a grab for Sam. 

One knee on the damp stone, Sam slid about six inches of the blade into the water. 

Salt for ghosts, holy water for demons, iron for fae, talismans for sorcery; he could almost hear his father repeating the simple lexicon and Dean gleefully proclaiming it all _shit_. Their father hadn't been amused but it made it easy for Sam to remember. 

Dean's fingers closed around his shoulder as the water began to roil and bubble, not at the blade point, but toward the center. Then he was being jerked back as the thing in the water erupted upward, with a shriek that was only a few decibels below a banshee's wail. 

It didn't come toward them, though, only scrambled up on the rocks on the opposite bank, dripping water and making a sound like hissing steam. Then it scrambled back, half in and half out, watching them warily, but it didn't climb out again and Sam wondered if it could even survive for very long out of the water or like a fish, would quickly start flopping and dying. 

It was smaller than Sam expected, about the size of a three or four year old child. Long hair, like water grass, trailed over pale skin, the eyes overly large and the nose overly small. As far as Sam could tell, it wore nothing at all, but even without clothes, there was no determining its gender, if it even had one. The fingers were well articulated but webbed, and the toes of its feet overly long and similarly webbed. Knees and elbows bent oddly as it crouched, reminding Sam of nothing so much as the small Fowler's toads they'd seen, except far more graceful, moving fluidly between water and rocks. 

"Guess that settles that," Dean said. They were both drenched, the water and air cold enough to make Sam's teeth chatter. Dean hefted the bag and the sound the creature on the rocks made shifted from a wail to a hiss. It darted out again then back, scrabbling toward the upstream side, crouching on the edge, long toes barely in the water, hands pressed to the rock, like it might launch itself at them. 

"Wait." Sam said. 

"Arguing." 

Sam stepped in front of him and caught his arms, keeping Dean from dumping the iron into the water. "It didn't hurt me. It isn't attacking...and as far as we know, it hasn't hurt anyone else." 

"We don't know what it did when you were standing in the middle of nowhere for hours. Maybe you just don't remember." 

"Maybe I don't, but...it didn't have to show itself to me, Dean. I never saw it, I wouldn't have...but it hasn't tried to lure either of us into the water or do anything else. Can we just....we know the iron is bad for it. So, we know what will hurt it." 

Dean's glance flickered between Sam and the creature, watching it over Sam's shoulder. "So, what do you suggest? We just leave it?" 

"I don't know. I don't know what it wants...but I think it's been trying to tell me. I just don't understand what it means." 

"Because of your head thing. Visions, psychic, ghost whispering b--....ability," Dean said and Sam knew he'd been about to say something else, like _bullshit_. "It doesn't make you responsible for every damn thing that comes along, Sam. Let them find someone else to shoot the shit with. They need to stay the hell out of your head." 

And that was the crux of it all, wasn't it? Ghosts, shades...all kinds of manifestations and incarnations. They were haunting them as much as being hunted. "This isn't a ghost. It's just a....thing." 

"It's a damn fae or something like it and nothing good ever comes out their deals, Sam. You know that." 

"I do know that," Sam said and twisted to stare at the creature. It was watching them, perched on a stone half submerged in the water, arms and elongated hands wrapped around bony knees. It didn't shiver as Sam did, nor did it shift, eyes with no whites watching them, but making no move otherwise. 

Keeping a hand on Dean, he turned more fully. "What do you want?" he asked, addressing it directly. It lifted its head and unfolded its arms, palms flat against the rock. It blinked once at Sam then turned its head to look downstream, inching across the rock to the edge of the pool. 

"What's downstream?" Dean asked, and set the bag down. He looked unconvinced. 

"I don't know. I didn't get very far," Sam said. 

"I'm not hiking this in the dark." 

"No, but we could check it during the day." 

Dean swore softly and looked back at the creature. "You stay in your damn pool," he said and then reached for the bag again. The creature hissed and scrabbled further upstream, splashing as it moved, the water shallower. Dean grinned at it, laying a fine line of iron across the stone, a darker line against the grey. It wasn't a circle and he kept it away from the water's edge, but the warning was clear. 

It rose up, a thin wraith in the shadows and stared at Dean but then nodded. It took a hesitant step toward the pool and when neither Sam or Dean moved, slipped back into the water, hovering just below the surface. It moved to the downstream edge where it remained, long arms trailing in the flow, one hand rippling over the small current, like Dean did with his own hand out the car window. 

They were both shivering when they reach the cabin. Dean built up the fire and Sam stripped down, coming back in with dry clothes and a blanket and urging Dean to change. The fire was sharp and bright, and made the headache that had started on the walk back flare and grind on Sam's nerves. Dean stopped shaking but he was pissed off and while Sam didn't think he'd sneak out and poison the pool, he wasn't a hundred percent sure, so he gave up on thoughts of sleep for being the target of Dean's anger and fear until Dean either did something about it or let it go. 

Their father's journal has a dozen entries on water creatures from selkies to will-o-wisps, but the fae realm wasn't something any of them had dealt with that much. Sam wasn't sure if it was because the links to that realm were weaker and rarer here, in the not so new world, or if the fae just had their own set of rules and codes and interactions with humans were rare things. Too much of it was brought from the old world to the new in tokens and badges and beliefs of immigrants, but for the water and forest dwellers Sam wondered if it wasn't other paths, like the road to the Summerlands, that they are wandering. 

Dean dug through a bag of odds and ends he'd brought in when he got the bag of filings, fiddling with something, but Sam only leaned back against the sofa front, feeling tired but keeping himself awake if only because Dean was so far from sleepy, it felt like a tiny betrayal to leave him alone to it. There were no bars close by, Dean's venue of choice when he was wound so tight, and that was Sam's fault if it was anyone's. 

In the morning they'd hike downstream and see if there was something to what the water creature was trying to tell them, but even if they found nothing, Sam thought maybe they should hit the road anyway. 

This plan of Dean's was the kind of gift that Sam never quite knew what to do with, but to take and be grateful for the fact that Dean always and forever looked out for Sam first. But they seemed to find what needed to be hunted without half trying lately, and maybe it was time they both just dealt with the fact instead of trying to find a way around it. Whatever had been opened in Sam's brain through the blood of demons or the wounds of death dealt too close, he didn't know how to shut it off. It helped them more often than it hurt them, he supposed. He could deal with the headaches for the most part, and maybe if he stopped trying not to look, eventually he'd come to ignore most of what he saw, the same way he ignored a million details seen out a car window. 

Dean stopped fidgeting and straightened up, holding out his hand. "Here." Terse and soft, but he was looking at Sam. Sam blinked and held out his hand, felt the weight of the thing before he saw it. 

Three iron nails double crossed and bound together with catgut, the silk cord of the pendant bound to the metal with more gut. Dean was already looking down at his lap again, working on a second one. Sam didn't say anything but slipped the cord over his head and let the heavy thing rest on his breastbone. Dean snorted, but Sam swore he hadn't been looking. Dean twisted and pulled at the collar of Sam's shirt and lifted the talisman to drop it against Sam's skin. The points of the nail pricked his skin when Dean patted it in place. 

"Ow." It was more protest than acknowledgment of real pain. Dean only smirked at him. 

"Pussy. Bleeding heart anyway." 

And like that, Dean's anger broke and slipped away. Sam slapped the back of his hand against Dean's stomach and got an equally overstated "oof" in response. 

"We should see if we can get maps -- see where that stream leads." 

Dean only nodded and turned back to finishing the second construction of nails and gut and silk. Sam reached into the bag and found the spool of gut and another of waxed flax, two spools of silk - one red, one black, stones and feather and bits and pieces. Dean could weave a better than average dream catcher, and a half dozen charms and similar talismans. Neither of them were entirely sure of the efficacy of any of them, but superstition was part and parcel of what they did, and luck an even bigger part. The pendant Dean wore always, spoke more to their relationship than having any inherent power that Sam knew of. He'd never asked Bobby about it, and Bobby had never commented, even when Dean showed up wearing it instead of their father. 

That was a mildly notable Christmas against many that were not, the gift something Dean wore but never talked about. He guarded it jealously, but never gave indication of its worth or meaning. Sometimes Sam wondered if Dean hadn't worn it all these years as much for penance as because it was a gift. A reminder of a time when Sam was too curious and too insistent that Dean shredded what little innocence he had left out of sheer exasperation . 

Dean finished his own, binding a second cord. It wouldn't be worn forever -- it was a momentary ward against whatever lurked in the water, to be worn beside the tiny bullhead but not in place of or forever with. Sam stopped him before he lifted the cord over his head, taking it from him and settling it himself with a little more care, flattening the charm before smoothing it against Dean's chest, then pulled the red spool out and quickly clipped, braided, and knotted two wrist charms for remembrance. 

He'd lost a couple of hours today, and so had Dean in a different way. 

Sam didn't intend to forget again and Dean held his wrist steady when Sam tied it on his arm. 

He really didn't think the creature in the pool wanted to harm them, but it wanted something. 

Not meaning to harm wasn't the same as not doing harm, though, and Sam needed to remember that too. 

+++++ 

They had to drive to the county seat in Baudette to find maps that showed rivers and streams and lakes -- Minnesota had a lot of them, earning the state its moniker of the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Water was everywhere and in retrospect Sam supposed it made more sense there would be all kinds of water dwelling creatures lurking in the depths of lakes and hidden streams. 

Bobby was as surprised as he possibly could be that there was anything there. Reiterating that neither he nor his buddy had ever seen or heard of it, and there had been some kind of structure on that patch of private land near the Red Lake reservation for the better part of a hundred years now -- not always occupied but for long enough periods of time and by men who understood about things in the dark for someone to have noticed something. 

Which brought it back to Sam being the reason why the creature had shown itself at all. That left Dean tight-lipped and tense again, but he didn't say anything. He helped Sam find and make copies of topo maps and some older local maps, then spread them out over a table in a diner to narrow down their own location. 

The stream was small, but eventually most of the streams and creeks in the area dumped into the Upper Red Lake, south of them. That meant they weren't likely to have to find a way to slip over the Canadian border to find a reason for the creature or its unspoken and mysterious request. They got back with some hours of daylight left, and decided to at least look. They didn't linger by the pool or try to draw the thing out, only headed downstream, Dean keeping track of the time and Sam of the distance. 

Despite the dense forest around the cabin, it only took a couple of miles to break into an errant meadow, still bare from winter. The stream cut along the edge of it, growing slower and shallower and wider for a bit with little to hold the banks in place but winter grasses. It narrowed and deepened again further on and at five miles south they saw the first sign of other people, fencing and winter tilled land and a farmhouse that wasn't abandoned, wood smoke from the chimney and a late model car in the drive. They'd be losing light in a couple of hours and headed back. Chances were they could drive back here and skirt the farm to pick up the stream further on, but even as they made a minor detour to find the road that had to be beyond the house, Dean spotted what would have been more of a mystery if they hadn't been wearing pedants of iron and watched the thing retreat from even the suggestion of it. 

Even in a state with this much water, having it where you needed it for your dairy cows or goats was a necessity no one thought of or weighed against consequence any longer. It covered an acre or more; a large pond, with steel sluice gates to trap water in a natural hollow; one at either end. Steel wasn't the issue but they checked the cement casing on either side, not surprised to find remnants of older gates, of iron and stone resting in the water, rebar in the cement probably. 

They had no way to remove the blockage if that was the problem, short of blasting it free, somehow Sam was pretty sure the farm owners would object to that. 

It was dark when they got back, requiring more caution in picking their way through the last of the woods. This time, coming across the rocky expanse that edged the pool was more welcome, if only because it made their footing slightly less treacherous. 

They stared at the reflection of moonlight and early stars until the creature showed itself, head and bony shoulders above the water. It looked expectant, even hopeful, and surprisingly it was Dean who crouched down, just past the still-present line of iron. "There's a gate..." he said and dropped his head. If there had been more light Sam was pretty sure there would be a flush on his face. 

The creature didn't seem to understand and only stared until Dean rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. Its expression didn't change much but the despair was obvious, heavy in the air like moisture before a storm. One thin hand stretched out, not quite touching the tip of Dean's boot and then it retreated, sinking back into the water. It didn't show again and Dean finally rose, brushing aside some of the filings to break the line. 

It was a little over ten miles from the pond here to the edge of the Upper Red Lake, and Sam tracked the maps and found the path they'd traveled, that single farm was the only direct barrier he could find. 

It wanted to go downstream and Sam didn't know why, and when the whispers started up that night they sounded different, more like dripping water and an underlying hush than the gurgle of a narrow stream; water falling off stone, waves lapping against a shore. 

Maybe there were others like it in the lake and this one remained, or maybe like a salmon it need to spawn in an environment different than the one it dwelled in. Maybe it was bored or tired or wanted someplace to die. He lay in bed with Dean's arm tight around his chest and tried to listen, but all he could hear was the soft sound of Dean's breathing and the resonant thump of his heart. 

"Can you still hear it?" Dean asked quietly because neither of them was sleeping. 

"Just the water." 

"There's no way to move those gates." 

"I know. Thanks for trying." 

Dean sighed and rolled away and Sam let him get away with it for a couple of minutes before rolling over too. "We can't save everyone -- or everything, right?" 

"Yeah. Especially since we don't know if it wants to be saved or should be." Dean's obstinacy wasn't actually from doubt this time -- or from conviction. Mostly it was disappointment at not being able to help and not just for the thing in the water. 

Sam closed his hand over the tangled amulets on Dean's chest and tried to pretend the drip of water he heard wasn't tears falling from a creature who didn't know how to weep. 

++++++ 

They stayed away from the pool for a couple of days for the most part, and set to the gravel and painting, but it no longer felt like payment for a place to rest, more like penance for an unacknowledged failure. Either way, it left them both exhausted at the end of the day and achy in the mornings. Dean went down once, in daylight, with a heavy bar magnet and a small bag and tossed both in the trunk when he returned. The list got shorter and the days got longer and Sam put the last of the paint on the exterior walls while Dean sliced into the bathroom water lines and connected the washer to them. He put the small pile of their dirty clothes in and then packed them and Sam knew they'd be leaving soon, within a day or so. 

Dean didn't try and stop him when he headed back to the pool toward dusk, only shrugged on his jacket and went with. He tucked the iron knife in the back of his jeans but left the filings. 

It didn't immediately appear, and Sam crouched at the edge of the water, and dipped his hand into it, taking a handful to drink. Dean didn't stop him from doing it, but his fingers dug into the collar of Sam's shirt and jacket and held tight. 

It was already getting dark, so no need for clouds to obscure too much light. Sam rocked back on his heels when the thing stood up, only a few feet from the edge of the bank. It held something in its hand but Sam couldn't see what. It started forward only to stop, and make that low hissing sound of displeasure and touched its own chest twice. 

Sam had forgotten. He reached up to pull the talisman over his head and Dean hissed as well, in warning. "Just hold onto me," Sam said. The red cord at his wrist was no threat to the creature and when he set the necklace aside it came forward cautiously. 

It offered no more than stones, two of them, worn smooth and hollowed through by water. Hag stones, wrapped in what looked like grasses but on touching them Sam realized they were strands of the thing's hair. Payment or thank you or curse, he didn't know, but he took them, and was even more surprised when one thin hand wrapped around his wrist lightly, not binding or grabbing, just barely holding him. Its skin was cool but not cold, wet and soft and supple like a snakeskin or eel. But even as he held it he could feel the wetness fading, the supple palm drying too quickly with nothing but Sam's body heat to warm it. He let it go and it dropped down, cupping water to pour over the stones in Sam's hands, before looking past him and up at Dean. 

Then it drew away, sinking quickly into the water, and hidden by darkness. 

Dean tugged at his collar. "Let's go," he said quietly, no command, merely a suggestion. Sam picked up his talisman settled it around his neck again. He fingered the stones and then offered one to Dean. 

Dean hesitated, but took it, holding it up. His thumb didn't quite fit through the hole and the stone was irregularly shaped, not a perfect circle at all. He thrust it in his pocket and turned away. 

Sam followed him, carrying his own stone in his hand, thumb rubbing the smooth stone. Like the water fae, the stone was already drying, heavy and cool, but not wet. It was likely the thing couldn't leave the water, or not for long. He couldn't be sure, but it would explain why it hadn't left, why it remained where it apparently no longer wanted to be. 

Or maybe he had it all wrong. They were guessing at so much, following intuition rather than fact. It couldn't communicate with them, at least not directly, nor they with it, even though it seemed to understand well enough. They'd tried and failed, and there had been no recriminations, no retaliation. 

Dean's hand came back up to rest on the back of his neck, thumb and fingers massaging the tendons gently for a moment, then just resting there as they made their way back to the cabin. 

They'd used up most of the fresh food they'd brought, and Dean heated up a large can of stew, caught the local news and weather on one channel. They were predicting heavy rains and colder temperatures over the next few days. Dean said nothing but Sam was clear they'd leave in the morning, if only because the rain would make it nearly impossible to get the car out if the track got muddy. The last thing on the list was to fix the railing on the porch, and that would take them all of five minutes. Another ten or so to close off the valves on the propane tank and the water lines, let the hoses drain. They weren't so far into spring that there couldn't be another freeze this far north. 

They cleaned up the dishes in silence, Sam washing and Dean drying and putting away. The cord on Sam's wrist turned dark, dark red in the water and tightened up some, some of the dye leeching out and leaving a red smear on his skin. Dean used the towel to wipe it away, then gave him push toward the bedroom. "I want to get an early start," he said. Sam didn't argue. 

He didn't argue when Dean's arm slipped around him and his hips nudged into Sam's from behind either, stripping off clothes between kisses and the grip of Dean's hands on his upper arms. Dean's pendants jangled and sang softly when he urged Sam over on his belly, and Sam didn't need any other encouragement to spread wide, or lift his hips. His own pendant dug into his skin and he didn't so much mind that either. 

Dean wasn't rough or bruising but he was urgent, frustrated maybe, and Sam shared it -- feeling not exactly helpless but unhelpful. Dean settling deep inside him in determined increments felt like they got something right, at least, no matter how odd or wrong it might look to anyone else. 

"Still thinking too much, Sam," Dean panted into his ear, and pulled them both onto their sides so he could wrap his hand around Sam's dick, and urged Sam to _help out here, Sammy. I'm not in this alone._

He wasn't. They weren't, either of them. In any of it, all of it. Sam hooked his leg back behind Dean's calves and pushed back. Let Dean tug at his hair and pull his head back, giving Dean access to this throat and jaw and went with what was here and now; the full, insistent throb in his ass and groin, the slick feel of Dean's hand on his cock and his own covering Dean's entirely. He reached back to find Dean's ass and choked on a laugh when Dean groaned deep and frustrated because Sam couldn't quite reach his hole no matter jokes about his Sasquatch height and reach. Dean thrust steady and sure, let Sam guide the rhythm of their hands, and pushed him flat on the bed so he could drive deeper, catching Sam just right on nearly every thrust. 

Sam was still hard and aching and right on the edge when Dean came, pressing his forehead between Sam's shoulder blades, tightening his arms in and around him. His heart thudded loud and fast against Sam's back, body warm and sweaty and shuddering in a way that almost made Sam come just because as good a lover as Dean was, it was rare for him to be overcome or to gasp Sam's name out the way he was now, soft and pressed to Sam's skin. 

Sam nudged his hand away, the tight coil in his belly and along his spine demanding release, and stroked hard and fast. Dean tucked his chin against Sam's shoulder and his hand slid under Sam's dick to squeeze his balls. "Come on, Sam...let me see it, let it go," he whispered and pressed the flat of his hand to the inside of Sam's thighs, opening him wider so he could see. It was right for all the wrong reasons, or maybe wrong for all the right ones. Dean's dick slipped out of him replaced by Dean's fingers and that more focused attention had Sam gasping and coming in a few seconds. Dean followed the aftermath, pressing deep, and twisting up and over to cover Sam's mouth with his own, then slumping down to rub Sam's thigh when he went boneless and so sated and sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open. 

"Gonna have to wash the sheets again," Dean mumbled. 

"Yeah." Sam didn't move though. He didn't hear any whispers or water, only the blood rushing back to where it normally resided. 

His dreams were a mixed set of metaphors, stark and clear in imagery but less so in connections, a tracery of riding in the car, and floating on the waves at the beach. But he was too far back and when he headed to shore, his legs grew tired and his throat parched and he could get no closer until the ice came. It started at the shore and stretched outward, surrounding him and leaving him cold. He pressed against it and it cracked and splintered, sharp edges slicing into his palms, leaving them wet and pale, and he looked for Dean, needing help to ease the bleeding. 

Red tinted windows looked on horizons he couldn't remember and he felt Dean's arms around him, carrying him -- only he felt too small, the road was bumpy and uneven, but not scary, like a sled ride and he wanted to laugh. 

Light and heat sent the lacy ice retreating, and hurt his eyes, and he knew he cried out, only there was no sound, just the hissing of water against the flames, and the smell of smoke and blessed, cool release of water closing over his head, shutting out the light, muffling the sounds of voices and sirens and even Dean's voice promising it would be okay, _Sammy...it'll be okay._

He woke with a start, sitting up quickly, heart pounding and throat closed over a sob that made his head ache. Dean came up as well, startled by Sam's sudden movement, hands already closing around Sam's shoulders. 

There was a tattoo of sound above them. The rain had come -- lightly it sounded like, but steady, already dripping off the roof, soaking into the ground, seeping toward streams and rivers. 

"Nightmare?" Dean asked, strong hands flexing and contracting along Sam's shoulders, grounding him and easing the tension all at the same time. 

Sam shook his head. "Not quite...just...ice and cold and fire. You carrying me away from the fire..." 

Dean squeezed his shoulders and ruffled his hair. "It's been awhile since you have nightmares about Jess." 

"It wasn't Jess. It was...I fell through the ice...did I ever fall through the ice? And the fire..." 

"Jesus, Sam..." Dean said and shifted to sit beside him, pulling the blanket around. The room was chill. "Yeah, when you were about four. Just at the edge of a pond. Dad and I had you out again before you hardly got wet. Maybe three feet of water. Deep enough to scare us both. And the fire--" 

"You were carrying me. Like in your arms. Not like with Jess...not having to push and pull me, just carrying me and running." 

Dean blew out a breath. "I did...after Mom. I told you that." 

"I remember it." 

"You were six months old, Sam. There's no way you can remember it." 

"I was too heavy...you almost fell. But you didn't. We were....it was bumpy. We were laughing." 

Dean didn't say anything for a long moment. "I was scared. And yeah...I'd never carried you so far, or without Mom or Dad right next to me. I almost fell down the stairs. So I sat down and went down them on my butt, then ran outside. You...you were doing that...it was a thing you did when Dad or Mom would bounce you on their knees. Not really laughing, just a kind of sound...and you'd get this big toothless grin..." he stopped and leaned forward. "Sam...you couldn't...there is _no way_ you can know that. You couldn't remember anything from being that young. _I_ barely remember it." 

"I wasn't scared. You carried me out of the pond too." 

Dean got up suddenly, hunting for his jeans. "Yeah. Dad went to get the car warmed up, but your feet were wet and cold and you were crying. So I gave you a piggy-back ride to the car. You laughed then too. By the time we got you in the car and changed your boots and socks and pants, you hardly even remembered falling in the pond." 

"Where are you going?" Sam asked as Dean found his shirt as well. 

"That thing is in your head, Sam. In your head and scrounging around -- there's no other reason why or _how_ you could remember any of this. Maybe the reason no one's ever said anything about it is because it's stealing memories, like it did the first time. Maybe that's what it does." 

"You don't know that." Sam got up as well and found his own jeans, hurrying because Dean was already yanking on his boots with no socks. 

"I knew we couldn't trust it. It doesn't get to be in your head, Sam. There's shit enough I can do about the things that do get in there, but this one I know how to deal with," he said and headed out, not waiting, even when Sam ran after him. 

Dean wasn't messing around though. He came at Sam, fast and hard, eyes dark and jaw set. Sam wasn't expecting it, not the fist to his jaw or Dean grabbing his boots and tossing them out into the yard as far as he could. He grabbed up the bag of iron filings and his jacket and heading out into the darkness, the flashlight glinting back on the rain that was still falling steadily. 

Sam swore and found his sneakers, his shirt and coat, and took off after Dean. He'd be lucky if he didn't break his neck, but he didn't dare hunt for the other flashlight, glad the path was mostly clear. And he yelled...screamed Dean's name. The rain soaked his hair and skin, the air frigid. They'd both end up with hypothermia, Dean blinded by his need to protect Sam from damn near everything, even when he couldn't. 

His coat slapped against his hips as he ran, not nearly as water resistant as Dean's leather, and he felt it then, the hag stone in his pocket, wet hand closing over it. 

What had been whispers in the cabin sounded like a roar in his ears now, the rush and rumble as the stream picked up speed, water sliding over rocks, and under ice sheets. He almost stumbled, the sound fading as the stone dried. 

He pulled it out, letting the rain soak it again and reached up to pull the iron pendant off, shoving it in his pocket. "Dean! Wait! Please!" he yelled and kept moving forward.  


> _...the stream started further north, flowing out of a lake and beyond that even further to mountains always capped with ice. When the water flowed quickly and deep it was easy to move back and forth, upstream and down...cold waters to warm. Roads and highways of water...here and there..._
> 
> _...but the way kept getting blocked, forcing them to detour, to find new routes...new roads...in between the water came the metals forged of earth and heat, poisoning the pathways...making the young ones sicken and die and the older ones lethargic, unable to hunt or move. They needed the big waters. Needed to escape the ice and the iron. .._
> 
> _...this was a bad path. It narrowed too quickly, was blocked just a short distance from the big deep waters...and before it could return, the way back was blocked as well..._
> 
> _...those that laid the iron could do so in the light, in the sun. They could walk the land without it shredding skin or drying flesh. They could move over earth like it and it's kin could move through water..._
> 
> _...it only wanted the deep water. To hunt and eat and be with its kin...with its like. So far away... so few._

  
The rock was slick from the rain and Sam hit it without realizing he was still moving, still running. The fall jarred the stone from his hand, drove the breath out of his lungs. Then Dean was there, pulling him upright. 

"Tell me you didn't..." 

"The hell I didn't. It got out though, headed downstream." 

"It will be trapped. It'll die." 

"I'm not sorry about that. It can't get to you then," Dean said, getting a shoulder under Sam's to get him to his feet. Something hard dug into Sam's hip and he twisted, digging his hand into Dean's pocket to find the other stone. 

It needed water, just like the creature did and Sam jerked away, thrusting his hand and the stone into the icy water. Dean was on him in an instant, pulling him back and Sam reached for the cords around his throat, pulling them up and off and dropping them to the rock. 

He didn't even know it would work. Dean had only ever shown the most fleeting traces of being aware of anything beyond his five senses that wasn't gut instinct. 

"Get the fuck off me," he demanded and Sam didn't answer, only pressed palm and hand and stone to Dean's throat above the open neck of his shirt. 

"Trust me," Sam hissed, grabbing for Dean and holding him as still as possible. "Just, please..." 

Dean snarled out something rude and pushed back, starting to give Sam the dressing down Sam knew he probably deserved, but the words never came out. He blinked and breathed, breath steaming the air, rain drops clinging to his hair and face. He clutched at Sam's jacket, but no longer fighting him. 

"It doesn't steal memories. It was just trying to find some way to explain. It'll die. These streams will run to trickles come summer and it won't survive unless it gets to deeper water." 

Dean jerked back, away from the stone. "It's not dangerous. They don't sing sailors to their deaths or lure children into the water to drown. It's not something to hunt," Sam said. "It's something to _save_." 

Dean rubbed at his face, and stared at the pool. "Yeah. Okay..." he said, sounding stunned. "We can't chase it. Not through this. Come on," he said, decisively, and reached down to grab his pendants and the flashlight. "We can drive to the farm faster." 

Sam didn't voice his fear that the road might be too sodden, or that the farm owners might not be too keen on having strangers roaring up their drive in the middle of the night. 

But there were only a few hours until dawn, and the waters in the stream would be too shallow to protect the creature from the sun. He stuck close to Dean's side, both of them running as fast as they dared. Sam clutched at the stone and tried to will the creature to know that they'd misunderstood, that they hadn't meant to harm, except he didn't think the stone actually worked that way. It was meant to keep memories of a sort, to be remembered for what it was. To remember the waters. 

Like every other type of shade he'd encountered or could be seen, leaving an impression, leaving a mark for good or bad. Everything left impressions; water on stone, or the care of a brother for an infant too young to know anything. 

They didn't stop to change, although Sam grabbed towels and the half-full duffel of their clothes. Dean grabbed the extra flashlight and his keys and the maps. 

The rain had been light so far and the Impala didn't mire although Sam thought they might have to hike at least part of the way back in if it got any worse. Dean cranked up the heat to keep them both from being made useless by exposure. 

They found the road without much trouble -- there weren't that many -- and Dean cut the lights on the Impala the minute they spotted the dark shadow of the farm house against the sky, and the engine before they reached the driveway. "I hope to hell they don't have dogs," he muttered as they both slipped out of the car. 

No dogs barked although a cow gave a low moo as they moved quickly along and then over the fence. They skirted the north end of the pond, Dean crossing the sluice gate to get to the other side, working their way upstream, to where the water flowed slowly. Twice Sam knelt by the stream, drinking the water, not sure if it really did anything or meant anything, but he had no idea what else to try, or if the creature could sense them close. They had no spells or rituals to summon it, no real way to call it. 

"Sam," Dean hissed out softly, staring into the water at the very edge of the fence line, where it curled around and widened, a shallow pond of no more than three feet across, the waters stirred up by the rain and the silt rising. 

Sam stared, trying to see, and finally caught a glimpse of something under the darkness, like wet cloth being tumbled in the water, twisting and forming odd shapes, save it was drifting _upstream_ , against the flow. 

The water was no deeper than the pool was wide, soaking Sam to the skin and icy. He held the stone and dropped his hand into the water. "Please...Please...we want to help," he whispered. 

He hadn't expected it to be so strong, hadn't expected it to attack. He should have though. It was desperate and afraid, maybe even angry. His feet got pulled right out from under him, and he heard Dean yell as the water closed over his head, was further aware when the small pool got more crowded, Dean's hand grabbing his jacket and pulling him upward so he could take a deeper breath. 

It was slick like an eel and seemed able to flatten itself or expand. It had no claws but it had teeth, was slippery and frantic when it slipped away, heading further downstream. Dean made a grab for it, catching one thin ankle and pulling it back, ending up on his ass in the water but grimly determined not to let go until Sam could pin the flailing arms. 

It struggled and mewed like a kitten, but out of the water it lost strength rapidly and gasped for air or words. Carefully Sam eased it partially back in the water but held on. 

It watched them both with huge eyes that blinked only rarely, and that a filmy cover over the blackness of its eyes, more frog than fish. 

"Now that we've got it, what the hell do we do with it?" Dean demanded through chattering teeth. 

"I don't think it will survive the drive to the lake. Not unless we carry water with us," Sam said and twisted so the creature could get its face in the water. That seemed to calm it a little. 

"Shit." Dean stared at it, dipped the thin legs down. "Look, it's the gates right? We get it past the pond and it should be able to follow the stream to the lake. That's what it needs, to get past the iron in the gates. It's a couple of hundred yards. It can survive that long...I got nothing else." 

Sam didn't either. They moved, cradling the thing between them, warding off its struggles, dropping it into the water when it started gasping and the skin started to feel less slick and more scaly. The rain helped some, starting to come down more steadily. But they were both numb and shivering, pin pricks of pain starting in Sam's hands and feet from the cold. 

A hundred feet from the first gate, the creature hissed and mewed again when they tried to soak it again and they backed up, further from the gates. 

"Can you hold it?" Dean asked and Sam shifted his grip, not sure he actually could if it started fighting again, but that seemed to have left it, and it made a tiny broken sound until Dean cupped water in his hands and poured it over it. He stood up and shed his jacket, pulling off his shirt and soaking it, wrapping the wet cloth around the thing in Sam's arms. It jerked in surprise, but thin fingers clutched at the cloth. Dean put his jacket back on and held out his arms. "Oh, God. It's like carrying a big frog," he said but his grip was sure. 

It let them trade places and Sam's jacket and shirt got the same watery treatment until the creature was completely swaddled in soaking wet cloth, like a beached dolphin. 

Then they ran. Stumbling over the uneven ground and with numb legs, skirting the edge of the pond to the far side. Halfway there the thing started gasping again, turning its face up into the rain, but it grew stiffer. 

They were dead center at the edge of the pond and Dean veered in, along the mud slicked bank. Sam tried to steady him, and the water, this close to the edge was fouled and muddy. Sam backed in, wading into the muck, and they eased it down, carefully, hoping they were far enough from either gate for it to be safe. 

The creature gurgled but didn't hiss when it first touched the water, and didn't fight as they lowered it deeper. It was like the reverse of drowning something, but neither the muck nor the iron framing the pond seemed to bother it. After a minute or so it reached up and touched Dean's face, lightly, a small pat, and they were off again. 

Dean ran again, Sam struggling after. Dean had the thing clutched to his chest, strain in every movement of his body, in his legs and back. He went down once, to his knees and struggled up again, Sam reaching to catch him by his jacket and waistband, hauling him upward, and they kept on like that, past the other side of the pond, to the downstream flow... 

Only to find a bare trickle or water in the stream bed, the gate closed. Sam headed back, looking for the release lever and pulling at it with slicked, numb hands. It groaned, half frozen and struggling against the settling of winter muck, but finally it gave way and the water rushed out, almost knocking Sam down. Water filled the channel, mud frothed and fast, a mini flood of icy cold. He wrestled with the gate lever, trying to cut the flow some, but either the gate needed work or he didn't have strength enough and he let it be, struggling out of the channel and crawling back up the bank. 

A dozen yards away Dean was standing half in the stream, holding the pale thing, unwrapped from their clothes, in the water. It wasn't moving, or even trying to seek the flow and Sam half staggered and half crawled to his brother, hearing his voice rise and fall in the rush of water and the crack of thunder overhead as the rain started to ease off. 

"Come on...you like the water. It's your thing," Dean was saying, but the thing lay like limp laundry in the water, looking more gray than white-pale. "It's gonna be okay...just give it a try. The water's cleaner downstream..." Dean was saying but Sam could only barely make out the words, Dean's teeth were chattering so hard. 

They had no way to give CPR to a creature that breathed water and Sam reached for Dean. "Let it go...Dean...let go. We did all we could," he said, more concerned about Dean now than the thing in his arms. His brother could be so damn stubborn. "Let it go." 

He pried Dean's arms loose, climbing into the stream once more. The first rush of water had eased some, the flow steadying out as the pond emptied. Dean finally did, opening his arms and the creature sank, then shifted with the current looking like drifting gray cloth in grayer water, twisting as it followed the stream. Sam tugged again and got them out. The sky was getting lighter toward the east, and they headed back, the fences almost defeating them, grabbing at each other to stay upright and keep moving. 

It was a miracle Dean hadn't lost the keys to the car but he found them, though it took a couple of tries for his numb hands to get the engine started and the heater running. Sam parceled out towels and tried to get them both dry and warm enough, finally pulling Dean against him. There wasn't much body heat to be shared and they were both soaked and covered in mud and God knew what else that had been dredged up from the bottom of the pond. The heat made the rank smell stronger, but Dean didn't even have the energy to bitch about how they'd never get the smell out of the car. But his arms wrapped around Sam, both of them alternately huddled and stretched across the front seat. 

Sam leaned his head against the window, leaving a smear of mud on the glass and watched the sun rise. He'd lost the stone, but the rush of water against his chilled skin remained, a yearning so deep for someplace to rest, for some distant home hitting him so hard that he knew it couldn't be his own. 

He was there already, with Dean wrapped around him like a promise and pretty much everything he needed within reach. They'd be warm again, and on the road, and the lingering impressions they made were nothing they could control or force. 

They could only be what they were meant to be and mostly that was together. 

But he missed the quiet dark. 

++++ 

The rain had stopped by the time they got back to the cabin and Dean eyed the track distrustfully, trying to keep the wheels off the rutted parts and on the grassy ones. He parked in front of the cabin instead of in the shed and they sat there, watching water drip from the trees under grey skies. Sam had aches on top of aches, even though he wasn't cold any longer. There was a cut on his hand under the dirt and rust, but it wasn't bad and it wasn't bleeding any longer. 

The cabin would be cold and neither of them were ready to leave the warmth of the car just yet. 

Dean was slumped down in the seat, hands resting on the wheel. There was a streak of mud along his throat and across his chest. His leather jacket was going to need to be washed and oiled and even then Sam wasn't sure the smell of standing water and mud and manure would ever leave it. 

Dean cut the engine and squinted up at where the sun was trying to break through. It failed and he finally shoved the door open with his arm and elbow. 

He didn't say anything to Sam, just climbed the three steps up and went inside. It was always been difficult for Sam to know which of them took failures harder. He had his issues and Dean had his, and it wasn't really a competition, but he doubted Dean counted his wins as often as he counted his losses. 

He scratched at some dried mud on his jeans and stared at the cabin. He was pretty sure Dean would head directly to the shower, which meant he had a few minutes and the car was still warmer than the air outside. 

Sometimes they were just too late. That had always been true. There were times when they didn't hear about or figure out things in time to do any good, but usually there was always another one, someone else they could save when ever what it was they hunted came back for another round. There was redemption in the numbers: that one or two or five may have already been lost, but it won't be six more or ten more when they are finished. He doubted he had to worry about whether or not the little water creature's spirit would haunt the pool, but it would probably haunt them both for awhile. 

He shivered and grabbed up the damp blanket from the back seat and wrapped it around himself, then nudged the car door open. The light wind made the blanket feel cooler and he hurried inside to escape the breeze as much as the cold. 

The fireplace was dark and the cabin as well; Dean hadn't even bothered to turn the lights on. He could hear the water though and the envy he felt for Dean and the hot water was something he could taste at the back of his throat, or maybe that was just a lingering bitterness. He dug for his heaviest sweatshirt and thick socks and went to lay wood in the fireplace, getting it started. He squatted in front of it, feeling weary and achy and seriously contemplating just dropping his body on the bed and damned be the mud and the dirt and sense of failure. 

The water shut off and he shifted position, folding his legs up under him, staring at the fire even when Dean came up behind him, smelling of warm damp. "There's hot water left," Dean said and nudged his back with a knee. Then again, more gently, and left him. 

"Hot water left" was true mostly in spirit, but it was enough to get the worst of the mud out of his hair, to clean the filth out of the cut on his hand. Dean had coffee on by the time he emerged and he was staring into the refrigerator when Sam emerged. 

"Eat, then leave?" Sam asked and Dean gave a distracted nod, but then closed the refrigerator without pulling anything out. Sam didn't comment. He wasn't that hungry anyway. 

"Do you want to leave?" Dean asked him, idly fingering his coffee cup. Sam poured a mug for himself. 

"I don't think it matters," he said, finally and watched Dean hoist himself up onto the counter. Sam topped off his cup. "My head goes with us, no matter what, you know? It's quiet here though. At least..." he shook his head. "I was going to say it should be now, but I don't think it's necessarily true. These things I see, the ones I sense, they're as much a part of me as you are. I don't think we can change that. I'm not sure we should." 

Dean met his eyes for a long moment then dropped his gaze. "These things are killing you, Sam. Or they are going to get you killed. They fuck with your head, fuck with other things too, like your sleep and your focus. You don't even see it." 

"But you do," Sam said quietly. "And maybe that's unfair, because I know it bugs you. I know it scares you," he said and for once Dean didn't shrug it off. "You've been looking out for me my _whole_ life. Is this really any different?" 

Dean didn't look up, but he didn't fidget either, his thumb stroked the rim of his coffee cup. Sam set his own cup down and stepped in closer, not sure what to do with Dean's calm or his silence. He put his hands on the outside of Dean's knees, rubbed the muscle there, just above the joint. "Hey." 

When Dean finally looked at him, that same deep concern was there, but there was something behind, something helpless and exposed. Dean set his cup aside as well and hooked a finger under the red cord still tied around Sam's wrist. "I don't like what it does to you. Times when you are standing right in front of me, but whatever you're seeing -- you're gone, man. Just... _gone_. And I'm...I don't always know how to get you back or how to follow." 

Sam wanted to tell him he didn't have to, that he knew, _knew_ somewhere deep inside that he'd always find his way back. That wasn't something Dean would believe, wasn't something he'd necessarily trust even from Sam. Maybe especially from Sam. It wasn't in Dean to be able to wait, to be unable to do something, anything. 

"I don't know how to fix it or shut it off," Sam said. "We could...there are all kinds of things we could try, binding rituals, blood magic...I'll do...I'll do whatever you want. I don't want to go where you can't follow either. And I can promise but..." 

Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up but not really in humor. Sam smiled and nodded. "Yeah...I know." 

Dean reached up and hooked a hand around the back of Sam's neck, drew his head down and until their foreheads were pressed together. He didn't say anything, only breathed with Sam for a moment, fingers rubbing against the nape of Sam's neck. Then he lifted his own head and pressed a kiss to Sam's skin, just at the hairline, before nudging him back. He said nothing, only took his coffee cup and headed into the bedroom. It was a request for space rather than an invitation, and Sam gave it to him. 

A half hour of it at least, before Sam felt the tug and need for sleep and the couch looked unappealing when there was a perfectly good bed already warmed by his brother's body. He banked the fire, but brought in more firewood since the skies looked ready to dump more rain, and headed to bed. 

Dean was sprawled on his stomach, and barely cracked an eye open when Sam settled in next to him, but a few hours later, when they both woke, feeling hungry and chilled, they'd both shifted to the center of the bed; sleeping with Dean's arms slung around Sam's stomach, half tucked into the front of Sam's jeans. 

They put off lunch for an hour seeking a different kind of comfort and a different set of answers. Sam didn't make any promises and Dean didn't ask for any. 

+++++ 

They stayed another two weeks, which was a week longer than Sam thought Dean could actually stand. He was restless and, if not short-tempered, at least less patient. They made one run into town to pick up more food and Sam did some poking to see if there was anything in local legend or Chippewa myth to explain the creature in the water, but what references he could find were too vague and generalized. No description of such a thing, spirit or otherwise. 

Sam could almost believe it never happened except for the healing cut across his palm, the loss of three shirts, and the iron nail pendant that hung around his neck. Dean had salvaged his own from his pocket and taken it off the bull-head charm he wore. He'd filed the points down and restrung it, offering it to Sam over their delayed spaghetti dinner while asking him to pass the garlic bread, Sam had put it on then reached for seconds. 

They'd walked to the pool together but nothing showed and nothing lingered and Sam couldn't find the hag stone he'd dropped, even though it should have been there. He didn't even tell Dean he was looking for it, but he noticed Dean's eyes tracked the ground as well, scanning over the rock. 

The pool was significantly lower, even with the intermittent rain they'd had and Dean had crouched at the downstream side and studied, pointing out where trailing runoff had dislodged smooth stones and thicker branches. Neither of them said it but Sam was pretty sure the water fae had been damming the pool, securing its environment. He wondered if there would be anything but a shallow puddle come summer. 

They left a couple of days after that, in the afternoon. Dean called Bobby to let him know they'd finished the list and to thank his friend for the use of the place, and ask him if he had anything they should look into. Bobby had a couple of things, and Dean decided Idaho was as good a place as any to get back into it. They hadn't been there in awhile. 

"Can we stop by the lake?" Sam asked as the car cleared the rutted drive. Dean had glanced at him but didn't answer. Sam didn't press it; it was mostly curiosity and nothing urgent -- nothing drawing him there. Dean made the turn when he needed to and they drove past the farm house, got a wave from a woman at the end of the drive, checking her mailbox. Dean waved back but didn't slow. 

There wasn't much to see. Huge portions of the lake were undeveloped and inaccessible, part of the tribal lands. They passed through Waskish Township, heading for Bemidji. There wasn't much there, but there was a gas station and post office, a restaurant that would have looked abandoned save for the neon _Open_ sign in the window. 

"You want to see anything, we probably need to wait until sunset," Dean said, and pulled into the restaurant parking lot. 

There were actually a couple of people there, regulars, who apparently walked or worked close by although Sam couldn't say where. The coffee was strong and fresh and if the sandwiches they ordered weren't the best he'd ever eaten they weren't the worst either. Dean flirted with their fifty-something waitress which got her smiling and her cook-husband frowning. Tourists and fishing and farming were the topics of the regulars. 

"Gonna be a pretty sunset," their hostess told them, looking out the windows, where already the sky was deepening to a red haze. 

"Yeah? Spectacular?" Dean asked her and she nodded. 

"You can take the Shore Road. Boat dock there and they don't mind if people get out and look Won't even charge you for it." She reached over to refill their coffee cups and Dean tilted his head, looking at the bracelet on her wrist. "That's an interesting stone." 

It was not entirely round, more an irregular oval. She had it fastened on a more traditional and gaudy bit of beadwork. "Found that years ago, on the lake. People do, now and again, stones all smooth and worn right through the middle. You can buy ones that look better, all nice and round. But I've always liked this one. When I found it, it was all tangled up in some grasses." 

"It's nice, really unique," Sam said and she smiled at him. 

Dean thanked her. They finished their coffee and left her a tip that was half the cost of their meal. Dean didn't ask Sam if he wanted to go, just turned the car around and headed toward the lake again. It was impossible to get lost -- only one road and they found the promised dock but Dean drove past it, easing the car to the side of the road a half mile or so south. 

By then the sunset had spread to full blood crimson, darkening to purple, glazed by gold. It made the lake water look red, even if that wasn't the reason for the name. It was calm and quiet, the shore lined with thick grass that extended into the water. They stopped just short of where the earth became marsh. 

There were no stones here, hollowed or otherwise, and Sam crouched low, fingers dipping into where shallow water lapped at the grass. 

"Don't you drink that," Dean warned and Sam rolled his eyes. 

"I wasn't planning to," he said and wiped his hand on his jeans. 

"What were you expecting, Sam?" Dean asked, curious rather than impatient. 

Sam shrugged and stood up, rubbing at the red line on his palm. "Nothing, really. Hoping maybe." 

"It might have made it. We were pretty close." 

"Yeah, we were. It's a big lake, deep. I guess, one way or another, it got home." 

"I guess so. If you're done communing with nature and lake spirits, though, I'd like to put some miles between this place and us," Dean said and turned back long strides already putting distance between him and the water. 

"Dean..." Sam said and Dean stopped. Promises wouldn't help but it was all Sam had to offer. "One way or another, I'll get home too," Sam said. 

Dean hesitated, looking over his shoulder, eyes scanning the water before coming back to rest on Sam's face. "Better if you never leave it," he said and headed back to the car. 

Sam followed him, fingers trailing over the tall grasses. 

He thought he heard whispers but he didn't linger to try and understand what they were saying. 

He heard Dean and that was enough. 

**~** end~ 

*[I Have Lived With Shades](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-have-lived-with-shades-2/) \- Thomas Hardy 

01/12/2008 

**+++++**


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